Haunted by the Fallen
by LadyRavenwing
Summary: The war used to be a subject of nightmares ... now it s comfort. But the memories are never far...(Post Reichenbach Falls. John s p.o.v. One shot.)


_Disclaimer: None of the characters in this are mine, naturally. Also, this piece is based on a piece of fanart I saw a few days ago but cannot find any more. If you by any chance read this and recognize it, I hope you will see this little one shot as a compliment. The inspiration was just too haunting to pass up. _

**Haunted by the fallen**

They used to be nightmares.

The sepia images rushing through my mind at night, the fleeting impressions of dust and sand the staccato sounds of boots on dry soil and rattling gunfire. The all too present memory of how the merciless sun of the Afghan desert makes your tongue stick to the insides of your mouth and how quickly one gets used to the irritating sand around your eyes. How quickly one gets accustomed to that everlasting thing that should never become a routine in the first place: War.

But these days nightly trips to this kind of past are no nightmare. The adrenaline of memories, the onslaught of feelings engulfing all senses, of rushing and running, of ducking to find cover, the feel of cold metal as I clutch my gun, searching the upset dusty earth in front of me for the bodies that are still moving … all of this is no longer a nightmare. It´s a refuge. Escapism.

Because as it turns out there are memories worse than war.

Turns out that there is a whole different category when faced with the senselessness of death.

But since I cannot write about that … _other thing_ here I am again. My mind stuck in the endless loop of heat, sand and mortal danger, reviving me. Choosing the smaller horrors to escape the larger ones that haunt me by day.

I am back, fully. In the middle of a battle I have fought before, my mind unaware of the déjà vu. There are about a dozen of us with me as the only one in the group with medical skills. It was an ambush, two dead at least, a third possibly, at best, wounded and we need to recover him. God knows where he is, the information we got was vague as such and I find myself hoping we´ll even find a trace.

We have made it well into the deserted village. A Taliban hideout that we thought abandoned until earlier this day. It isn´t. The hollow snap of a bullet missing its target rings out against stone or rock as we advance and I can feel the adrenaline rushing through my body as I hear someone shout a command and we duck behind the ruined, remaining walls of what was a building once. My memory is fuzzy about its original function. It doesn´t matter. My brain covering such now irrelevant detail.

Another bullet, missing its target, but narrowly I presume. There is a muffled curse to my right and turning I look into my superior´s face, obscured in part by his helmet. He remains motionless, just a curt nod of the head where we´re cowering, covering behind the wall. I follow his gaze, understand what he means. "We´ll find this kid.." his voice is low. Hoarse from the dust. "but we won´t leave that poor sod out here." I keep his gaze for a moment. He looks young. Younger than me by a few years. "We need to make the survivor our priority." I remind him. "and get the other two home later. We will." I feel reassured, my memory not skipping a single detail of the situation I have lived through already. In the end it´s the other man who breaks eye contact, but not because I won any sort of staring contest. Because of the scream.

"_**JOHN!"**_

Pained, tormented, sending shivers of anxiety through my body, because for a moment…just a moment…it sounded hauntingly familiar. But no. My subconsciousness roots me in its false reality before I can lose my mind over how much that sounded like someone calling my actual name for help. And I know it´s not just any someone … I focus, shaking off this oddity intruding what I take for reality, not a dream, withdrawing into the twisted comfort that this war memory has become for now.

We remain in hiding, the gunfire ceasing but we know they are somewhere. We know they are hidden from view somewhere, waiting their chance. Half of us are probably by now wondering whether to give up and retreat into safety, wondering whether the soldier we came for isn´t dead as well and our presence here merely endangering more troops. I cannot be the only one wondering, ashamed, who would be accepting the flag if I was taken back to England in a casket, because this situation right here might get out of control.

It didn´t of course. But I do not remember how the memory goes. In this dream it´s all very real, all like it is happening for the first time.

Then suddenly he is there. I can only see him from behind. A slender figure in uniform, unmistakenly one of ours, gun at the ready, advancing, with a limp, towards the fallen body that we saw earlier, hunched over slightly, probably only just taking in what has happened. He is none of the ones that came here, I understand immediately. He is the one we came here to retrieve. I didn´t even see him coming. He must have emerged from the other side of the square, from somewhere near a side street to my left, just outside my field of vision, but I never see more than his back.

Something is wrong about this. My mind is trying to comprehend, noticing this doesn´t overlap with the actual memory. This tall, slender figure walking, then stopping, discarding something with his right hand, carelessly. I notice it´s his weapon, but for just a moment there is the strongest feeling of déjà vu. Like I´ve seen this elsewhere, just not a gun being discarded. Something else … Getting rid of some object with determination as if the figure I am watching from a distance was bracing for something. But my quest to set apart reality and fiction is interrupted by the mere situation. "_What the hell are you doing, get the hell away from there, private!_" my superior yells at the lone soldier. It is surprising there hasn´t been any gunshot yet, putting a sudden end to this audacity, this soldier so willingly exposing himself to the danger of walking into an open space, unarmed now, that is swarming with Taliban fighters just out of sight. They are probably as taken by the absurdity of the scene as I am. But just for a moment.

Then the unknown soldier does a step forward, a step towards the fallen one on the ground maybe a few steps away from him, seems to stumble, spread his arms and just when the shots ring out, a dull, sickening rattle, the feeling of déjà vu hits again, forcefully, making me choke. As I watch the man fall forward, arms spread, falling under enemy fire without fighting back, just giving himself up like that, for just a second the dust of the desert whipped up by the few bullets that whip astray almost give shape to his clothes, adding something to it, making it, as he falls, look like he was wearing a coat which, as he falls, billows behind him like a twisted, melancholic set of wings. I can only stare. Petrified. Unable to move. Every fibre of my being aching with the urge to run, but I can´t. For long, tormenting seconds when I see the soldier fall, memories overlapping with something else that I in my dream state cannot quite grasp, I cannot move. Then the curse is lifted and I feel my heels press into the ground, my gun clattering painfully against my side as I jump up and dash forward. Run. Abandoning cover. Abandoning safety. Driven by instincts and raw emotions that I cannot sort in. That make no sense in the context of war.

I do not know if anyone protests my suicidal act of heroism. If they do my senses choose to ignore them, focusing exclusively on the body that has, somewhen in the last second or two, hit the ground, face forward, rolled slightly to the side but facing away from me. The phantom of a coat is gone as the dust sets against the slowly setting sun, making the figure a soldier again, lying on his side unmoving, a helmet askew on his head. I am at his side in seconds, the danger of being in the focus of snipers somewhere in the back of my mind, but the blank horror that has seized it blinding out that hazard.

I nearly fall, tripping over some piece of rock, more slumping to my knees than kneeling down as I reach out to turn the fallen soldier around, reaching for his left shoulder.

I have done this before. I have seen death. Countless times. One becomes numb towards it. It never becomes routine but facing death is something that, just like so many other things, one can get used to. Has to. Occupational hazard. Protecting one´s sanity.

But you cannot be prepared for everything. And I could never be prepared to what I see when I move the soldier´s body over to his back. I have seen eyes staring at me before. I have seen blood and wounds. I have been able to stand the sight with a doctor´s analytical gaze, assessing the chances and possibilities to ensure survival and first aid if necessary or useful. But never… this once…I could never.

My voice is gone, choked somewhere in my throat.

The soothing protection of the dream lifts violently.

It´s not an unknown soldier´s face.

It´s _**him**_.

Just like I remember him.

That last time I saw him

Just like I will never forget. His eyes staring lifelessly, the far too red blood clotting the side of his face and his dark curls.

It´s him. Invading my dreams, turning them into nightmares.

And I scream.

Scream.

Scream until I wake.

At once she is there. Wordlessly. She never needs words. She is just there. Embracing me, holding me close. I must have woken her and feel my bad consciousness stab me all over again, barely dulling out the pain of dreams and memories alike, blurring into one another. I am shaking.

"I´m here, John." Her voice is no more than a whisper as she hugs her head against my shoulder. "I´m here. It was just a dream. Just a dream, John." As if that was a route to escape. As if I could ever escape this.

I groan. "I…I woke you." My voice sounds raspy. Like sandpaper.

"Shh, never mind." She doesn´t let go and I am incredibly grateful for that.

I sigh against her, numbly, shakily reaching up and brushing a hand through her hair. I hate how vulnerable I am feeling right now.

"It´s the war again?" she asks.

How can she know? Of course she doesn´t After just four weeks of dating. She can´t. She doesn´t. I just cannot bear to correct her. To tell her. She reads the newspaper, of course. Watches the telly. Maybe has a hunch it´s not just the war, but I am so grateful that no matter what she aids me in sticking to that little white lie. 

"Yes." I hear myself whisper hoarsely.

"Just a nightmare. Just the war."

She accepts this wordlessly. Allowing me to hold her close and never letting go. I pretend to fall asleep again soon, knowing so does she. She wouldn´t call me out on pretending. And I don´t either. And I am glad. Pained, but glad. For some battles she cannot fight for me. Some things I have to face on my own. And I have no bloody idea how I ever will.


End file.
